life? We are, let us say, now beginning to settle down, to feel a
sense of responsibility. Father Time with his scythe has not greatly
concerned us up to now; but we fancy that we see his figure, faint and
shadowy, and, it may be, only just discernible, coming towards us from
over the horizon.... We are ready for serious books now.
But, bless you! that is just a stage--a period in our pilgrimage
through life. The old loves return. The volumes that charmed us in
childhood and in youth again claim our affections. And with what zest
we re-read those precious volumes! How heartily we greet our dear old
friends! How grateful we are to the authors who have introduced us to
this or that genial fellow, to this sedate and scholarly gentleman, to
this winsome maid, to that noble man, to this gracious lady! And how
many more await us!
Yes, the persons one meets in Bookland form an ever-increasing
army--so vast, so numerous, that when meditating upon them and their
characteristics, their virtues, their weaknesses, their foibles, their
whimsicalities, their sins, and their noble deeds, one is led to divide
them into classes and place them under the names of their creators--to
set apart the delicately but firmly pictured characters of Jane Austen
in a line running parallel with, say, the creations of Mrs. Gaskell and
other lady novelists, taking care to keep them some little distance
apart from the creations of Fielding and Sterne. For in Bookland, as
in real life, it is unreasonable to expect persons of widely different
temperaments to live on amicable terms.
That was a good plan, surely, of the book-lover who not only
classified the characters of his favourite authors under the name of
their creators, but also, after carefully considering their various
characteristics, grouped them in little compartments. It is good,
however, to feel that the characters of many of our famous novelists
may be left to mix freely. One cannot, for example, doubt that the
great majority of the creations of Charles Dickens were meant to ‘rub
shoulders.’ So wide were the sympathies of that great delineator of
human life that few indeed are the children of his imagination who
are lacking in some point or other of common interest. Tapley, Pinch,
Micawber, Toots, and the lovable Pickwick, and a host besides, may be
left safely in one compartment.
But all this may lead you to suppose that the persons who played a part
in real life as well as in Bookland are being forgotten. That can never
be. For who can forget the chief characters in the historical works
of our great novelists? These, in a sense, are more real to us than
children of the imagination. For we may first study the conditions in
which this or that great figure played a part in life, and then look
upon them in the searching light of the skilful novelist.
How natural, however, if the lover of books should at times overlook
the greatest of figures in a company so vast! He will do well if he
but keeps a warm corner or two in his heart for old friends and an
open place for new ones. And if meanwhile he can manage to keep his
mind fresh and active, ready to receive new ideas and eager for fresh
knowledge, he may surely rest content. Happily for the makers of books
we have not all the same taste. Some are for this class of book; others
for that. Some seek knowledge; others seek entertainment.
But I am running away from the vein in which this little book was
started. I am forgetting to set forth my own little likes and
dislikes. There is a reason, however, and it is this: I have nothing
more exciting to confess at this point than the plain fact that I am of
the company of bookmen who read _simply for the love of it_.
VII
SECOND-HAND BOOKS
The love of books is a love which requires neither justification,
apology, nor defence.--LANGFORD.
I HAVE confessed that I am of the company of book-lovers who delight
in dipping into the ‘lucky-tubs’ to be found outside booksellers’
windows. I know of no pleasanter way of spending a spare half-hour.
Give me a few ‘loose’ coppers, place my feet upon a likely road,
and I am content. I am now, let me say, of the happy company of
_book-fishermen_. And this, mark you, is fishing in real earnest,
this effort to ‘hook’ good food for the mind, to place in one’s basket
a ‘book that delighteth and giveth perennial satisfaction.’
Ah! it is a good road I am on--one of London’s happiest
thoroughfares--a road rich in book-shops. Here for a humble penny one
may dip into tub or barrel and perchance pick out a volume worth its
weight in gold! We hear so frequently of marvellous ‘catches.’ You know
how this, that, or the other fine sportsman boasts of landing fish of
amazing weight--well, it is so with your _book-fisherman_. Has he not
told you of first editions procured for a single copper? And who shall
say what fine day may not find us among Fortune’s favoured ones?
And so now to our fishing! Here is a copy of Milton’s _Paradise
Lost_, ‘hooked’ in the deep waters of a ‘penny tub.’ It is
calf-bound, mark you, and in fairish condition, though much stained
with the passing of years. My heart leaps; it is very old--a first
edition possibly! But no; it is anything but that, and alas! like the
egg that has grown into a proverb, it is only good in parts. Many of
the pages are entirely missing, and others partially so. Judged by the
books that surround me, it is dear at a penny ... _Paradise Lost_!
Yes, I confess that this fishing has its distressing side. One is
frequently disappointed. And how heart-rending it is to find great
works in a soiled and tattered condition, to discover, on drawing one’s
hand from some ‘lucky-tub,’ that one holds the remains, a few pages,
it may be, or the cover only, of a book that has played a part in the
making of this world’s history! And how touching to find a winsome
companion like the gentle Elia soiled, torn, bereft of covering,
showing yellow gum and coarse stitching! I confess that such a sight
almost moves me to tears. Fair wear and tear would never have reduced
the gentle Elia to so pitiable a state. I suspect hands as callous
as those of the butcher in the slaughterhouse across the way. Alas!
that there should be men to whom books are merely so much paper and
cloth. ‘A book,’ you tell them, ‘is the precious life-blood of a
master-spirit, embalmed and treasured upon purpose, to a life beyond.’
And their answer is a smile. But this is no time for repining. The
great army of book-lovers swells with each passing year. From all sides
come recruits, often from the most unexpected quarters, from mill and
factory, mean street and slum. Yes; ’tis a great day for books, and
soon _Everyman_ will have his library, in fact as well as in name.
And who dare say, who can guess, what treasures his library will hold?
Now back to our fishing. Here is a tub that promises well; the price
per volume, as aforetime, is only one penny. See! Here is a dainty
volume, slim and shapely of form, and clothed in a delicate green. A
minor poet, you guess. Yes; the work of a minor poet, published, no
doubt, at the author’s own expense. But do not turn aside. Do not say
that such books are of no value. I confess that I am for lingering over
this slender booklet. Its cover is very pleasing; the type is large and
clear; the paper is of good texture. And what anxiety, what patient
care, probably went to the making of its contents! Brave minor poet!
You have withstood many rebuffs. The road you travel holds, I doubt
not, many pure delights: you walk, it may be, beneath a star-strewn
sky. But star-gazing has proved in your case a dangerous occupation.
‘He who raises his eyes to the heavens forgets the stones and puddles
at his feet.’ Alas! you have had many falls. And when perchance you
have come to the ground, it has often been to the accompaniment of
heartless laughter. ‘Here,’ cry the critics, ‘is another minor poet on
all fours.’ And with ill-timed jests they proceed to point out your
weaknesses; how that you have not the feet to walk aright, much less
run; and as for wings, there is not, ’tis frequently said, so much as
a sign of their sprouting. But for all that you have scrambled to your
feet, and marching bravely forward, continued to give generously of
your gentle fancy. Long may you live! In you we have (and here is my
strongest point in your favour) many a great and worthy poet in the bud.
And so I confess gladly, and, indeed, with a proud heart, that in my
bookshelves you hold a warm, well-sheltered corner. I love to handle
your slender volumes, to pore over your early fancies, ill-expressed
at times, it may be, but with a sincerity that is refreshing, and a
simplicity that is delightful. And if your work is poor from cover to
cover--which is rarely, if ever the case--well, you have given us a
book.
Yes, I am of the company of book-lovers who revere anything in the form
of a book. Lovers are made that way; and it is futile to inquire how I
can bring myself to love books of ‘all sorts and conditions.’ As well
might you ask the nature-lover why he speaks so tenderly of, say, the
worm that peeps through the tender green of some sun-lit lawn. ’Tis
simply love--love for the humblest children of dear Mother Earth. And
so it is with the true book-lover; for the humblest volume he has a
tender thought.
But what of our fishing? This is, I take it, a fitting place to record
how on such and such a day I had the good fortune to ‘hook’ a copy of
this or that desirable work for a few humble pence--a ‘mere song’!
Well, so it has been, ‘day in and day out.’ But those books, I would
remind you, are now my companions, my friends, and I can no more
associate money with their value than I can judge a friend in the flesh
by the contents of his purse. To me they are _priceless_.
VIII
‘THE CULT OF THE BOOKPLATE’
YOU have often heard the cry, and know full well its meaning, ‘My books
are priceless.’ What wonder, then, if you and I--lovers of books--take
lively interest in what an ingenuous man of business has called ‘_The
Cult of the Bookplate_.’ ‘The mission of the bookplate,’ he advises
us, ‘has always been, and must always be, primarily to indicate
ownership of the books in which they are placed. They may be ornate
or simple, as the taste or means of the owner may indicate; they may
incorporate crests, arms, motto, or other family attribute; or, again,
they may reflect the personal interests or occupations of the owner;
but the real aim of the bookplate remains ever the same--a reminder to
those who borrow.’
Pretty ground this for contemplation--for doubts, counsels, hopes,
fears, regrets; aye, and for _rejoicing_! How my mind leaps,
first this way, then that, when I meditate upon that rich circle of
friendship in which I may borrow from a fellow book-lover’s treasured
volumes, and, of course, lend of my own! Yet by what unspeakable
regrets am I possessed when I think of certain treasured volumes lent
in wildly generous moments to good but ‘short-minded’ friends! I have
in mind a little volume of essays--a first and only edition--by an
unknown but charming writer, which is now in the possession of that
restless fellow K----. May he see these words and repent! And what of
that treasured edition--once mine, but, alas! mine no more--of certain
writings of Dr. Johnson? Oh, that I could send the good doctor in quest
of the volume! What blushes of shame he would bring to the cheeks of
the heartless borrower! ‘Sir!’ he would cry. And what words would
follow! Very speedily should I be in a position to fill the gap in my
shelves.
And there is that dainty little calf-bound volume of Lamb’s essays,
borrowed some months back by J----. Where are you and my little volume
now, good friend? For reasons known to ourselves alone I address you
tenderly. But I would that I could send the gentle Elia to recover my
lost gem. Very gently would he deal with you, with quaint phrases,
puns, and happy jests. Aye, and with little speeches uttered with that
fascinating lisp of his. Indeed, I fear, now that I come to give the
matter careful thought, that he would leave you empty handed. It would
be so like his charming ways to console, comfort, and amuse you, and
leave with you, after all, my volume of his incomparable essays.
The truth is, this work of restoring borrowed volumes to one’s shelves
calls for a stout heart. I confess that I am wanting in the necessary
qualifications. I have not the courage to speak harshly to a fellow
book-lover. So firm is his hold on my affections that I am as wax in
his hands. Yet book-lovers to a man agree that the borrower who never
repays stands in dire need of correction. I must call another to the
task--one of stronger metal.
Listen! ‘Even the fieldmouse,’ cries my champion, ‘has a russet gown to
match the mould, but the book-lover who has let loose a borrower in his
library is as forlorn as the goat tied up for tiger’s bait. True, that
to spare your Homer you may plead you are re-acquainting yourself with
the _Iliad_, but that is to save Homer and lose Virgil. You cannot
profess that you study all the classics simultaneously; and who knows
that better than the borrower? Snatch your Browning from his grip,
and his talons sink into Goethe instead. What does it matter to him?
He is out for books, and he will not be placated until he has left
gaping rents in your shelves, like the hull of a bombarded battleship.
These chasms shall burden your soul with the weight of many unkindly
maledictions, but the borrower will return no evil thought, for the
simple and satisfactory reason that he will now think no more either
of you or of your books. Stabled securely upon his shelves, they will
remain on one of those perpetual leases that amount to a freehold. It
is useless to invade his lair with the hope of bringing back the spoil.
Are you not instructed that he has not yet had time to read them,
but that they are yours again whenever you will? Outgeneralled and
outflanked, you retreat empty-handed.
‘Books are gentle, lovable company. Why should the lust of them
corrupt human nature, turning an amiable citizen into that hopeless
irreclaimable, the inveterate book-borrower? Is it that law of
contrasts which associates with the noble steed the ignoble
horse-coper, and with the gentle dove the cropped head and unshaven
jowl of the pigeon-flyer? But truce to theories! It is the hour of
action. Will not a benignly reforming Government insist that lent
books shall be registered like bills of sale, and a list drawn up of
notorious borrowers, with compulsory inspection of their dens, to
protect our defenceless libraries from the ravages of the book-pirate?
If it is hopeless to look for his cure, shall we not at least petition
for his prevention?’
You will allow that all this bears directly upon the subject in mind.
Does not the ingenuous gentleman whom I have quoted at the head of
this chapter aver that the real aim of the bookplate remains ever the
same--‘a reminder to those who borrow.’ Here, then, is one thread of
hope, but only a very thin thread, I fear. Not for one moment dare I
venture to think that it will bear the weight of our grievances. It
is too fine, too delicate, to save us from the hands of the ruthless
borrower. Indeed, I suspect that if it in any wise alters our position,
it is only to draw us into fresh danger. For you know how many and how
varied are the charms of bookplates, both old and new. Indeed, I have
known book-lovers borrow a volume for the sole purpose of tracing the
design upon the fly-leaf. It is a fault of which the present writer is
guilty. With shame he confesses it.
But wait! Why should I speak with blushes of my admiration for the
brave armorial designs which adorn the calf-bound volumes of my friend
H----? Well may he be proud of his family attributes, and well may I
admire the manner in which some skilful designer, long departed, has
incorporated arms and family motto with the familiar words _Ex Libris_.
I know not, by the way, how any book-lover can bring himself to ignore
information so absolutely clear. The announcement ‘FROM MY LIBRARY’
seems in the case of the particular bookplate in mind to come, nay,
_does_ come, from a trumpet of amazing dimensions. But it is to be
feared that the imaginative designer has been allowed too free a hand.
So rich is his fancy, so skilful his line work, that the force of his
call to duty is dulled by admiration. Perhaps that is why my friend’s
volume still rests on my shelves. And perchance herein may rest an
explanation of the heartless manner in which my friend has held fast to
my treasured volume of Cowper’s poems.
It is, I say, to be feared that designers of bookplates have sacrificed
the primary aim of their calling to the elaboration of playful fancies.
From the very birth of the bookplate the fault seems to have been
present. I am told that the earliest specimens date back to 1516, and
on the Continent, notably in Germany, even earlier than that. Far back
into the ages must we travel to find the first offenders. Let the
interested book-lover examine the ancient examples presented in 1574
by Sir Nicholas Bacon to the University of Cambridge. He will then see
pretty clearly how the war has been waged between the pictorial and
the practical, and how, all along the line, the victory has been with
the former. And what wonder with such mighty craftsmen as Albrecht
Durer, Lucas Cranach, and Hans Holbein to wield the steel point of the
engraver! Can one be surprised if such men defeat the chief aim of the
bookplate, and put to silence with their wonderful skill the simple cry
_Ex Libris_? Bookplates by Durer, Cranach, or Holbein must surely
give great value to the volumes in which they rest. Note the danger!
True book-lovers will blush to own it, but we must acknowledge the fact
that a bookplate may have greater attractions than the volume in which
it rests!
Wherefore, I say, we book-lovers will be well advised if we see to it
that we do not fall into the error of keeping on our shelves books
which may be coveted for the plates they contain. Bookplates in the
delicate manner of Chippendale, with ‘wreath and ribbon’ and open shell
work, are too alluring. Designs in the manner of Sheraton are also
dangerously attractive. Jacobean plates come nearer the desired mark.
But to my mind the good old English style of plate, ‘simple armorial,’
is best fitted for the purpose.
Always must we remember that the primary object of the bookplate is
_a reminder to those who borrow_. On this score I am disposed to
favour those inexpensive modern plates in which are interwoven some
dear, familiar scene--a nook or corner of one’s garden, or a beloved
scene in one’s native place. If the ruthless borrower has aught of
good in him, surely he will be affected by such tender personal
associations! But we have seen that the average borrower of books is
a strange fellow. Alas! I know him only too well. Indeed, I too must
confess that ‘out of an intimate knowledge of my own sinful ways have I
spoken.’
IX
BEDSIDE BOOKS
I come to my subject in a sleepy mood. It seems a daring confession to
make. But you will allow that only when one’s mind is bent on thoughts
of sleep can one hope to speak fittingly of bedside books. ’Tis a
subject calling for gentle, quiet thoughts. And what better state of
mind? You remember Robert Louis Stevenson’s prayer, ‘Give us the quiet
mind.’ How often has a similar prayer been offered! Too often are we
disturbed in thought--harassed, perplexed, worried. Let us now turn
our attention to books that soothe and lull to rest. Here they stand,
ready to hand. But name them I dare not, save in my own heart. For your
taste in this matter may be totally different from mine. I dare only
say at this point--for here surely I may speak with confidence--that
no bedside shelf is complete without a copy of Stevenson’s prayers.
With gratitude I confess that of the many volumes which have comforted
me during dark hours not one is so dear, so close to my heart, as the
little volume bearing the golden letters R. L. S.
‘Be with our friends, be with ourselves. Go with each of us to rest.
If any awake, temper to them the dark hours of watching; and when
the day returns, return to us our sun and comforter, and call us up
with morning faces and with morning hearts--eager to labour: eager to
be happy, if happiness be our portion; and if the day be marked for
sorrow, strong to endure it.’ Certainly the prayers of R. L. S. should
have a place on every bedside shelf. That you are familiar with the
foregoing prayer, I cannot doubt. ‘Many are the golden passages the
lover of good books has by heart.’ It may be that you have upon your
own particular bedside shelf many ‘devotional authors’ with whose every
word you are familiar--books, small and great, which are as jewels in
your shelf. And no doubt you have upon the same shelf many every-day
and every-hour books, acting, as it were, as a setting to your gems.
For certainly the bedside shelf, if it is to be complete, must contain
books to suit all moods. One cannot be certain in what mood the night
watches will find one. The over-excited brain, for instance, needs
its own particular medicine, and sometimes two, three, or more drugs
are required, according to the state and nature of the patient. In
the majority of cases it is futile to attempt a cure with a book less
lively than the patient’s own brain. His abnormal condition must be
righted by degrees. One book, or drug, must follow another, till his
mind has been restored to a normal state. Then may he resort to his
accustomed ‘rest books,’ and so fall asleep.
But I fear that such talk ‘smacks’ of the doctor and his medicine
chest, and I desire to conjure up restful thoughts. Well may the reader
be forgiven if he starts up in protest. Indeed, here is the difficulty
and the danger of seeking to promote a restful condition. One is so
apt to make, with the best intentions possible, a remark which has the
reverse effect. There is, I say, the risk of naming a book which to
the reader might come as a call to action--to daring deeds and mighty
enterprises--a mood as far removed from slumber as the North Pole from
the South.
I may, however, speak freely enough in the company of book-lovers who
wake with the rising sun and take to themselves one of their beloved
books. They will not resent my likes and dislikes--they who open the
day with a ‘jolly good book.’ In their company I may confess that for
the early morning I prefer a book with plenty of ‘go’ in it. Give me
life and spirit and enterprise. Thus may I hope to retain some measure
of the buoyancy of youth. It is good to have been young in youth,
and, as the years go, to grow _younger_. ‘Many,’ it is written,
‘are already old before they are through their teens; but to travel
deliberately through one’s ages is to get the heart out of a liberal
education. Times change, opinions vary to their opposite, and still
the world appears a brave gymnasium, full of sea-bathing, and horse
exercise, and bracing, manly virtues; and what can be more encouraging
than to find the friend who was welcome at one age welcome at another?’
Let _Westward Ho!_ stand on your bedside shelf, and many other
books of the same brave and lively order--‘the travel and adventure
books of our spirited youth.’ These, if you meet fresh days with a
book, will brace you for the battle. Stevenson must, of course, remain
one of your companions--your faithful friend both night and morning.
Bravery he will give you, and grace also.
Forth from the casement, on the plain
Where honour has the world to gain,
Pour forth and bravely do your part,
O knights of the unshielded heart!
Forth and for ever forward!--out
From prudent turret and redoubt,
And in the mellay charge amain
To fall, but yet to rise again!
Captive? Ah, still, to honour bright,
A captive soldier of the right!
Or free and fighting, good with ill?
Unconquering but unconquered still!
And mark again with what ‘manly grace’ and beauty of expression
Stevenson turns our thoughts to the ‘Giver of all strength.’